He couldn’t recall ever having uttered such a graceless invitation to a young lady to dance, but now he thought of it, he suspected she might have resisted a more conventional approach. As it was, she went with him readily enough, allowed him to turn her onto the floor.
He bowed extravagantly. She swept him a faintly mocking curtsy in response, then he drew her near and she came into his arms.
Even as he stepped out, whirling them into the revolving circle, he felt the difference—how could he not?
He looked into her face, saw her arrested expression, the interest, the fascination, flaring in her eyes, and knew she’d never felt the like, experienced the like, either.
As if they were physically two halves of the one whole.
Loretta felt it to her toes. Lost in his eyes, she lost all awareness of them being separate entities—of her being her and him being him, two separate, disparate people.
She told herself to breathe, to battle the constrictionbanding her lungs. She managed it, yet she would swear he breathed as she did, that his pulse echoed the steady yet heated pounding of hers.
She’d steeled herself against the sensation of his fingers closing about hers, yet his hand clasping hers somehow balanced the pressure of his palm on her back, the heat of both contacts oddly pleasant, even welcome.
His arms seemed to cradle her, to hold her so safely. His assured steps, the brush of his powerful thighs against hers as he whirled them, spoke of ineffable control.
For once, she gave herself up to it. Without thought or reservation.
Lost in his eyes, ensnared in the moment created by the music, the waltz, and the man, she couldn’t explain or excuse the effect—the outcome of a host of unexpected sensations.
She wasn’t a gifted dancer—or so she’d thought—yet in his arms she whirled light as thistledown on the breeze. He was an expert exponent of the art, yet why his masterful, powerful lead should so draw her in, so capture her that she transformed into the perfect partner for him, she couldn’t fathom.
Dancing, even waltzing, had never held her interest—had never held the power to capture and hold her thoughts. But this was quite different, something outside the norm. Intriguing, fascinating, tempting.
Rafe couldn’t tear his attention from her. His wits only grudgingly spared the awareness necessary to guide them through the sea of whirling couples.
He should have guessed. He’d known she was different, that his interest in her was different in nature to how he’d viewed women in the past. He’d known that she captured his attention, his awareness, as no other lady ever had.
He’d known, but had determined to put her and all she evoked in him to one side until his mission was complete.
Clearly, on a dance floor engaged in a waltz, that determination wasn’t going to hold.
Yet the intensity of his interest in her puzzled him. Whyher, or was it why now? Was it simply that she was the first passable lady he’d met after resigning his commission and leaving his bachelor army life behind? Was it simply an aspect of his age that he now appreciated independence, a dry wit, and a dash of acerbity along with soft curves and silken skin?
He didn’t know, but the physical and mental attraction he felt for her was undeniable.
The waltz drew to a close. He whirled her to a halt, bowed, then raised her from her curtsy and wound her arm in his. “You waltz perfectly well—why did you imagine you didn’t?”
She studied him; he could see her mind focusing behind her lovely eyes. “I hesitate to further stroke your ego, but I suspect I haven’t previously had the opportunity of waltzing with a gentleman as accomplished as you. I hadn’t realized soldiers were so well-drilled in the dance.”
He grinned. “Wellington was a hard taskmaster, at least when it came to the social skills he expected his officers to master.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.” He steered them into the ambling crowd. They were some distance from where Esme still sat, but as long as they kept strolling, the feminine vultures were unlikely to descend. “Under his rule, we had to waltz, had to know the proper observances for all the noble ranks, had to instantly know the correct title to use for anyone we might meet. In his view, officers had to be able to hold their own in ballrooms as well as on the battlefield.”
“What a fascinating concept.” Loretta stored it away for later use, once she returned to England and her commentaries. “The Duke is quite active in politics now.”
“So I’d heard, but it’s difficult to imagine old Hooknose toeing anybody’s line.”
Loretta made a mental note to learn more about Wellington. Esme might be a valuable source.
A gentleman hailed Rafe. They detoured to join the gentleman’s circle; he proved to be an old schoolfriend of Rafe’s, currently with the embassy. He introduced them to others. Loretta found herself chatting with other ladies in a way she rarely did in London. Of course, most of these ladies were married, and Vienna was a fascinating city; they were happy to tell her of their experiences there, of what they found most different and most similar to London.
All excellent fodder for further vignettes. Loretta happily pursued her purpose, while beside her Rafe seemed equally relaxed as he renewed old acquaintance.
The next waltz started up, and one of Rafe’s friend’s acquaintances asked her to dance. In the interests of determining whether her transformation on the floor was restricted to dancing with Rafe, she accepted. In short order she learned that if with Rafe she was thistledown, with any other, she was considerably heavier.
The music didn’t move her; the dance did not sweep her away. As for her partner … he was just another boring man.
At the end of the dance, she returned to Rafe’s side, satisfied she now knew what was what.
They chatted some more. More old acquaintances, including some friends of Rafe’s father, materialized from the crowd. Esme had warned that it would be a long night. As a matter of tradition, the Hofburg Palace Winter Balls lasted until five o’clock in the morning. Loretta decided she needed confirmation of her earlier result with the waltz, so she accepted several further invitations, yet each time returned to Rafe’s side with the same degree of disillusion.
She didn’t like waltzing with any other gentleman. That was the only conclusion she could reach. In no other man’s arms did she find the same magic.
He’d been aware of her excursions; she’d felt his gaze on her every minute she was away from his side. When the next waltz started up and he solicited her hand, she accepted readily.
By the time they returned to the circle they’d been chatting with, there was no longer any doubt in her mind.
With him, the waltz was magic. With others, it touched her not at all. So what did that mean? What was she supposed to conclude from what was now a very thorough examination?
She wasn’t at all sure.
But she wasn’t averse to the suggestion he, through his attentions to her, the way he kept her by his side and deferred to her, endeavored to project—that he and she were a couple with some degree of understanding between them.
That façade protected him from the still-circling harpies, and gave her the option of declining any invitation she did not wish to accept.
She was tempted to refuse the young Austrian gentleman who bowed before her and invited her to dance the waltz just commencing, but he was Austrian. All the other gentlemen she’d danced and conversed with had been English. Hoping to gain some novel insight for her vignette on the ball, she accepted, and let the young man—he was, she judged, younger than she—lead her to the floor.
As a dancer he proved sadly wooden and stiff. She made an effort to engage him in conversation, yet unlike most men who were always happy to talk of themselves, young Herr Wittner seemed reticent and distracted.
She was more than ready to return to Rafe’s side when the music ended. In this instance, that meant making her way up the full length of the immense ballroom. Stifling a sigh, laying her han
d once more on Herr Wittner’s arm, she swung in the right direction, but he didn’t budge.
“Fräulein, I wonder if you would care to stroll the terrace. It is uncomfortably warm in here, is it not?”
She blinked at him. He sounded tense. It was December in Vienna; it would be bitterly cold outside. It wasn’t that warm in the ballroom; she was certainly in no danger of swooning from the heat.
Glancing at the nearby terrace doors, she saw—thought she saw—a darker shadow hovering beyond the light thrown through the long glass panes. She looked more closely, butthe shadow whisked back, out of her sight. A person, or a shadow cast by some tree? Regardless … “No, thank you.” She refocused on Herr Wittner’s face. “I’m quite comfortable.”
“Ah, but the view from the terrace is quite remarkable, you know. I understand you are a visitor to our fair city.” He shifted his arm. His fingers closed about her elbow. “You really must allow me to show you.”
He’d propelled her two steps toward the terrace doors before she snapped out of her stunned amazement and dug in her heels. “Herr Wittner! Let me make myself perfectly clear—I do not wish to go out onto the terrace.”
Instead of easing, his grip on her elbow tightened. “But the view—”
“Will do me no good if I catch my death!” She’d been keeping her voice down, but was growing increasingly worried.
Herr Wittner might be young, but he was more than strong enough to manhandle her outside. He’d already separated her from the crowd; if she wanted help, she would have to raise her voice—have to cause a scene—which was quite the last thing she wanted to do.
“Unhand me, sir!” She poured as much command into the order as she could.
Herr Wittner’s mask of polite civility contorted in a snarl. “You don’t understand—”
“There you are, my dear. I wondered where you’d got to.”
Relief swamped her; she struggled not to slump. She turned as Rafe stepped free of the crowd. “Does my great-aunt want me?”
“Doubtful—it’s still early. But we should perhaps wander that way.” Rafe leveled his gaze at the hapless young gentleman who, from what Rafe had glimpsed through the crowd, had been attempting to inveigle Loretta away somewhere—apparently against her will.
What he felt about that wasn’t at all civilized.
Then he noticed the man had hold of her elbow.
Something of his reaction must have shown in his face.
The young man paled and quickly released her. He hesitated for a second, then stiffly bowed. “Fräulein. I thank you for the waltz.”
Coldly, Loretta inclined her head. “Herr Wittner.”
She said nothing more.
With a wary nod to Rafe, Herr Wittner walked off, back into the crowd.
“What was that all about?” Rafe turned to keep the young man in sight.
“I have no idea. He seemed to have some bee in his bonnet about taking me out onto the terrace.”
“The terrace?” Rafe turned to look at the doors nearby. “Why?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Loretta stared at the doors, then walked closer and peered out into the night. “The thing is, when he first mentioned it, I glanced this way and thought I saw someone lurking in the shadows.”
Rafe stepped past her. Shading the glass with his hands, he looked right, then left. “There’s no one there now—not that I can see.”
“Never mind.” Loretta resettled her silk shawl about her elbows. “Let’s go and check on Esme.”
He turned, offered her his arm, and together they headed toward the chaise Esme had made her throne. Without being obvious, he kept an eye on the main ballroom doors. On parting from them, Herr Wittner had cut a path directly to the doors and gone out. Even after they’d crossed the huge ballroom and reached Esme, he still hadn’t returned. Which seemed odd.
After checking with Esme, who was still engaged catching up with her friends, he paused with Loretta by the side of the room.
Glancing down at her, he saw her eyes narrowed on his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
He debated, but couldn’t see any reason not to tell her. So he did.
She frowned. “Could Herr Wittner be a—what do you call them? A cult hireling?” Her eyes widened and fixed on his. “Could the shadow on the terrace have been a cultist?”
He grimaced. “Theoretically, it’s possible. Practically, however, I can’t see how it could be. The cult couldn’t have known we would attend this event. Even if they spotted us entering, that they just happened to have Herr Wittner in their pocket, ready to send in, seems too far-fetched a notion.”
“But if not the cult, then what?”
He could have told her that although the cult were the obvious villains, there were other villains about, ones who might have thought to prey on an innocent lady unfamiliar with the city. Instead, he raised his head, then set his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “That’s another waltz starting up. Come and dance.”
He set himself to distract her from the disturbing puzzle of Herr Wittner’s intentions, and succeeded well enough to have the frown leave her eyes, to have her softly smiling in delight.
The sight made him feel better, less inclined to berate himself for having let her out of his reach.
He didn’t for the rest of the ball.
They checked periodically with Esme. Eventually she declared it was time to depart even though it was barely three o’clock. “We’ll be on our way tomorrow, and I’ve accomplished all I wished to here.”
With that enigmatic statement, one Rafe—favored with a rather smug smile—suspected meant something other than the obvious, Esme rose and led the way from the ballroom. In short order they’d farewelled their hosts, reclaimed the ladies’ cloaks, and climbed into their waiting carriage.
Ten minutes later they were climbing the gangplank onto the Uray Princep.
“I believe I will take a nightcap.” Leaning on her cane, Esme glanced at Loretta. “Could you fetch it for me, dear—a brandy? You know the one I like.”
“Yes, of course.” Loretta diverted into the bar while Esme, with a goodnight wave to Rafe, went slowly down the stairs to the stateroom.
The night lay heavy on the boat. Only Hassan was awake, keeping watch on the observation deck. Rafe waited, watching as, in the faint glow from a nightlamp left on the bar Loretta poured a small measure of brandy into a tumbler, then restoppered the decanter and set it back in its rack.
Her cloak about her shoulders, her reticule dangling from one wrist, she picked up the glass and came around the bar.
He’d halted at the bar’s end.
Reaching him, she paused.
Loretta looked up at him through the shadows. She couldn’t put her finger on what had changed, but something had. Without questioning the impulse, without considering her reasons, she reached up, laid her free hand against one lean cheek, then stretched up and touched her lips to his.
Kissed him gently, in her own time, in her own way. Then she drew back, sank back. Let her lips curve. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
His eyes held hers, then one brown brow arched. “What about for teaching you that you can dance like an expert?”
Her smile deepened. “I’d forgotten about that.”
He reached for her and she met him halfway, met his lips with hers, then parted them and let him enter and taste.
Let him explore and claim. Set her own senses free to follow his lead, to seek and learn, to taste and savor.
The exchange lengthened, lingered, evolved.
Into one of muted hunger, of slowly burgeoning desire. Of controlled yet controlling need.
Rafe closed his hand about the wrist from which her reticule dangled, the hand that held the glass of brandy, and helped her to hold it steady.
While they played.
While with lips and tongues and the slick heat of their mouths they communed.
He knew well enough not to go too far, no
t to let a spark ignite the tinder of latent desire.
He drew back, reluctantly, yet knowing he must. Knowing that neither he nor she had yet made the choice, the decision to go further.
She sank back to her heels on a sigh, one redolent with sensual content. Her lids rose; she met his eyes, then her lips curved.
He caught the hand still cradling his cheek, turned his head. Eyes still locked with hers, he pressed his lips to her palm, watched her eyes widen. Releasing her, he forced himself to take a step back.
Letting her hand slowly fall, she stared at him for an instant, then, lips still curved, turned away. “Good night.”
He didn’t reply, just stood where he was and watched her descend the stairs.
When he heard the stateroom door snick shut, he finally dragged in a breath. He looked around, inwardly debated, then headed up the stairs to the observation deck.
As he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night, he might as well relieve Hassan.
Six
December 3, 1822
Rafe remained on the observation deck until the Uray Princep slid out onto the river, and under oars and sail headed westward. To his relief, no cultists appeared on the wharf. He saw none on the riverbanks.
Once Vienna had been left behind, he headed downstairs. Even if they’d thought of it, he could understand that the cult might not have bothered watching the river. They’d assume that as a courier carrying a vital document he would make for his destination with all speed. Traveling by river was slower than traveling on land. That he might opt to drift along, might have a schedule that wasn’t “get to England as soon as possible,” wouldn’t enter their heads.
So on the river they were, at the moment, safe. He fell into his berth and immediately fell asleep, and dreamed of an elusive, fascinating lady who loved to waltz.
He woke in time for luncheon, but approached the table—now one large table about which their party gathered—with due caution.
“There you are, dear boy!” Esme smiled. “Thank you for your escort to the ball—the event fulfilled all my expectations.”
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